The Drink
by DrainBamage
Summary: Waking up the morning after is never fun, especially when you can't really remember and the other blames it on the alcohol. Connor/Murphy Twincest twoshot.
1. Murphy

Title: The Drink 1/2

Author: drainbamage954

Rating: PG-13

Fandom: The Boondock Saints (Connor/Murphy)

Genre: PWP, General, slight angst

Wordcount: 2,839

Warnings: Swearing and yaoi (boyxboy)

Summary: Waking up the morning after is never fun, especially when you can't really remember and the other blames it on the alcohol.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Boondock Saints. Well, I own the movie, but I don't think that's the same thing.

Notes: Part one of a two shot, because I love two shots. The second half is not PG-13 for those wondering. This is just the lead up. I'm following the trend I began in 'Fuck Me.' ENJOY! Sorry it's so short. Part two is much longer... and more fun.

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Murphy:

He blamed it on the drink.

I don't know if he knew how much it broke me when he said that. When he said it meant nothing to him, when it was just a means to an end, a mistake, a slip up due to inebriation.

Fuck that.

We've been drunker than that many times before. Last night was just the first night something happened because of it. The first night that we didn't care, that I wasn't afraid. Some say, it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.

Fuck them this fuckin' hurts.

I'd rather have never loved him at all, not this way at least, because it's forbidden and wrong and, even if he did feel the same way he'd say no because it's wrong. This morning does nothing but shatter whatever hope I had, shatter whatever is left of me, whatever is left over from wasting years and years sneaking small looks and trying to cover my tracks.

I'm sure this wasn't what God meant in the bible when he said love thy brother.

I can't stand this. I can't stand sitting in the apartment right now. This disgusting crappy little loft apartment that I mostly call home with fondness. The place I don't remember coming back to last night, don't remember how I ended up in a mess of musty blankets and limbs on the floor with my own flesh and blood.

I need a cigarette.

"Where th' fuck are ya goin'?"

I say nothing as I shrug on my black peacoat and leave, the door banging behind me, blocking him out and our small dingy home.

I need air. I need space. I need something to get my mind off of things.

Nothing happened he said. Of course, neither of us really knows that. Sure, I was still wearing my jeans and he was wearing his boxers and socks, but really, neither of us remembers. Well, I remember some, and judging from the faint marks on my neck and his shoulder, _something_ did happen.

Plus my lip is busted and bitten. I can feel the teeth marks with my tongue. Teeth marks that I'm pretty sure aren't my own.

Nothing happened he said.

Nothing happened my arse. I would argue with him, but I know it's useless. Useless because he'll just tell me we were drunk, not thinking, that it was a mistake.

We were confused.

Fuck that, I'm almost never confused.

Well, except that one time and I swear to god I thought that was a girl. That's an experience I never want to repeat.

It's cold as I walk outside, glad of the coat. Of course, what else should I expect of early March in New England. The convenience store is just a few blocks down, a walk which I can complete in my sleep at this point. I'm sure the clerk would even sell me cigarettes and whatever I wanted if I was asleep. Actually, I wonder if that's ever happened. I used to sleep walk when I was a kid. Used to freak Ma out something fantastic.

Walking in today, I'm barely there two moments and the clerk has my choice cigarettes in hand and is smiling at me. I suppose being a creature of habit has its perks. He raises an eyebrow to seeing me alone.

"Where's the other half?" I try not to let that hit me like a grand piano. I can see that he has another pack ready to be grabbed, ready for the brother not here. Goddamnit. I put on a smirk for appearances.

"Contending with th' effects o' alcohol an' bein' trounced by his brother," I say, easily being the joking funny twin. "Didn' want ta show his face fer th' shame of it."

The clerk laughs, letting me buy my cancer sticks without further question, obviously amused at my description of my twin. "I'm sure it'll be him next time telling me the same thing," he says, handing me my change and cigarettes. I try to smile at him for the comment, taking my leave as fast as possible. As soon as I'm in the cold air again, I'm putting a cigarette between my lips and fumbling with a lighter, desperate for that calming rush of the smoke.

I want to get back to the loft and hit him, tell him it's not the goddamn drink, that I'm not confused, that it wasn't a mistake. I want to walk as far away as I can, walk for hours, smoking and thinking of anything but him. Let him sit in the goddamn empty room for a while and think for once.

I can't do both so instead I settle for leaning against the railing of someone's garden, smoking absently and scowling at the asphalt.

I'm apparently lost in my own world because I don't hear the yelling until it's right in my ear.

"Where th' fuck did ya go?"

Ooh he's angry. I can see it in his eyes and the way his shoulders are tense. And the flaring nostrils also. They always flare when he's pissed. Pissed as in angry, not drunk. They don't flare when he's drunk.

"What th' fuck da ya care?" I snap at him, not bothering to really look him in the face. That always makes him more annoyed.

I can see him try to keep from hitting me. It's kinda funny to watch him battle with himself. I'd be amused if I'm not already pissed. Angry pissed, not drunk pissed. We were both drunk pissed last night. It's because we were drunk pissed that I'm now angry pissed. "Ya fuckin' left fer no reason!" He's yelling now, gesturing somewhat. "Ya barely say more 'n five words ta me all mornin' before stormin' out with no word as ta where yer goin'. Fuck! Ya coulda been leavin' fer all I knew."

"I WAS leavin'!" I shout at him, finally snapping to look at him, cigarette half crushed in my hand as I shove at him. "I don' need ta tell ya everythin' do I? Yer not Ma, Con." I shove him again. "Christ, it was just fuckin' cigarettes."

He shoves me back almost instantly, a snarl curling his lip as he glares at me. "Fuck you!" He shouts, suddenly fisting his hand in my coat and pulling me right to his face. His snarling angry face with flaring nostrils. I finally notice he's not wearing his coat, that he left the flat without it. "Then ya shoulda told me it was fuckin' cigarettes!" he shouts directly in my face. "Not stormed out like a fuckin' woman. Fuck Murph, ya coulda been leavin' me fer all I knew."

I'm confused and angry and his mouth is much too close to mine. I can feel his spit from all the consonants. "What th' fuck would I be leavin' fer, ya retard?!" I've fisted my own hands in his shirt, feeling the fabric strain in my fingers. "The only reason I'd be fuckin' leavin' is because ya force me out."

He shakes me, throwing me harshly back out and into his grip, hands still curled in the lapels of my coat. "Fuck you!" He shakes me again as if to emphasize a point. "Then why th' fuck didn't ya come back!"

"Oh!" I shove him away, hard enough that it breaks his grip on me. "So I can't even have a moment to myself now, huh? I'm not yer fuckin' property!" I throw my arms out, gesturing to him that I am, though his twin, not physically connected to him. Fuck. Right now I can't tell if I want to run away or into him. I don't know if I want to run into him to beat the shit out of him or to molest him. "Since when do ya dictate what th' fuck I do? If I wanna go on me own for a bit, yer not one ta tell me no."

He jerks his head agitatedly, a sign that he's really angry. His teeth are almost bared as he looks back at me, brow creased and eyes burning as his shoulders are stiff and square, ready for anything. "Tha's not th' point!"

"Then what is th' fuckin' point, Connor?" I demand, leaning forward to get right in his face. "Why th' fuck did ya chase me here fer? Ta yell at me? Ta make me feel like shit?" I can feel my own anger pulsing in my body, eyes sharp as they glare into his burning gaze. "Cuz ya don' have ta follow me down here, I already feel like shit thanks ta ya. So fuck off!" Glaring furiously, I turn from him, viciously kicking the railing I was previously leaning against.

I've settled on a choice. I'm getting the fuck away. I can't deal with this right now. I've barely had my moment to think since I left for cigarettes, since he blamed it on the drink, since a large part of me broke. I need to get away, to think, to scream, to hit something, to nurse my wounds, whatever, I just need to get away. However, apparently Connor doesn't like the idea of me leaving, considering that I barely get five strides before he bowls into me, slamming into my back and sending us nearly to the pavement.

"What the fuck!" I shout at him, turning and glaring, trying to keep my balance with a twin latched onto my back and practically spitting fire. "Get off!"

"Tell me what th' fuck yer talkin' about!" Connor yells back at me, not letting go and instead kicking me awkwardly, sending a nasty pain up my calf. I grunt as we begin to scrapple, me trying to shove him off and walk away and him trying to keep his hold on me and drag me to the ground so I can't move at all.

I want to talk to him about this.

I don't want to talk to him about this.

I want to talk to him about this but I don't want to talk to him about this like this.

Fuck I'm confusing myself.

"Get th' fuck off!" I yell at him, throwing a punch or two against his back, unconsciously missing his head as I try to jerk him off(1). It's actually quite hard to remain standing with someone's dead weight dragging you down to the ground, especially when that dead weight is doing everything in their power to pull you to the ground.

Connor says nothing to me, instead growling through bared teeth as his hands dig into my waist, feet shuffling as he attempts to pull me away from my destination of the fuck away from him. It's usually not so bad, scuffling with him. Usually because it's in good fun. I'm usually not pissed as hell at him and he's usually not angrier than a wolf that some dickheaded kid is poking in the side with a stick at the zoo. Then he yanks me with his arm and, much to my dismay, I've lost my balance, falling to the ground with a yell and a grunt.

Goddamnit cement hurts.

"Connor!" I yell angrily, kicking sharply at him as he lies half on top of me, pinning me to the ground.

"What's got ya' so pissed, huh?" Connor yells at me, forcefully dragging himself up to face me, pressing himself down on me to make sure I can't really get away. He looks downright pissed as he glares at me. "What's so bad tha' ya can't ev'n tell yer own brother?"

"Fuck you!" I yell, trying to buck him off of me so I can just run, leave him behind me so he doesn't have to see my face. A face which I'm sure is too close to tears for my liking and too full of anger for his liking.

"That tells me nothin'!" Connor yells, whapping me in the side painfully, causing me to grunt and lurch to the side. He's directly on top of my now, pinning me to the ground and making it almost impossible to do anything. Thrash, buck, kick, punch, none of it is possible with him as he is now, pining my arms and legs beneath him. All I can do is turn my head to the side as far as I can and try to hide.

This says a lot. I never hide.

Connor immediately stills, apparently realizing maybe I really do want to be left alone, maybe there is something wrong with me that I really can't talk to him about. Maybe he can't fix this. Now he's still, if I wanted to, I could shove him off and run. But I can't. Not now because I'm too tired, too broken, and I can't do anything.

After a moment, Connor sighs, shifting slightly so he's not pressed down as hard on top of me. "Come back t' th' flat," he says, his voice now much softer and slightly resigned. I say nothing, just continue to breathe at the pavement with my eyes firmly closed. "Hey." He gives me a slight little shove. "C'mon. We're goin' home."

Then he's gone, moved off of me and I'm just lying there, alone on the pavement with my eyes closed and face pointedly facing the ground. "Go yerself," I say softly, no longer wanting to keep the anger in my voice. Next thing I know, I've been hauled off the ground onto my feet by his strong arms and hands, standing half on my own to face him, directing in front of him. I don't look at him, just keep my face to the side.

I've never felt this disconnected from Connor before, this far away, this cut off.

I've never hated alcohol this much before in my life for what its done to me. Done to us.

"Is this because o' last night?"

The words hit me like a building but I make to display of it, no reaction, just keep my face and eyes away from him. Away from that face which is my undoing. He's quiet except for his soft breathing, just barely grazing against my face as his hands strongly grip my coat, keeping me upright. He sighs, letting his hands slack slightly, entrusting me to keep myself upright. "Look, Murph, I'm sorry, alright?"

I close my eyes.

Please stop.

"I just don' feel the way you do-"

I wish I could close my ears too.

Please, please just stop.

"-I didn't mean fer this ta happen-"

God this hurts.

"-But I can't change th' way I feel-"

Just shut up.

"-Or th' way ya feel I guess."

Just shut the fuck up.

"Can't we just forget about it?"

I hate him right now as my eyes suddenly flash open, head jerks to face him and body goes rigid.

"No, Conner, I can't just forget it," I snap at him, feeling furious as his expression mimics being slapped in the face, his features falling. "I can't forget it no matter how hard I try." His face grows more and more somber. "Fuck," I shout and shove at him.

The shove snaps him out of his 'pity me' moment as he stumbles back, angry look returning to his face. "Look, it's not like yer th' only one hurt an' confused here!" he shouts at me, face flushing slightly. "Stop actin' like yer th' only one that's been fucked over."

"Oh, an' yer gonna tell me ya feel like yer dyin' inside, huh?" I snap back, throwing an arm out angrily.

"So what if I am," he yells, gesturing furiously. "S'not like ya care. Fuck!"

I'm much too angry right now. "Well, why don't ya just go an' blame that on th' alcohol too. Worked fine b'fore fer ya," I sneer.

"Goddamn-" he throws his hands down in frustration. "Fuck you! It wasn't the alcohol!"

To Be Continued... .

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A/N: I love cliff hangers. Mainly because I already have part two of this with Connor set up and ready to go. Also, kudos to those who can guess where this goes following Connor's line. Yeah, I suppose I'm evil... but I like being mean sometimes.

(1) I laughed when I was rereading this mainly because it can be taken soooo badly. Not meant sexually here, just sayin'.

The second half will be out shortly. Merrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr (--- sound, not word)


	2. Connor

Title: The Drink 2/2

Author: drainbamage954

Rating: PG-13

Fandom: The Boondock Saints

Genre: PWP, General, slight angst

Wordcount: 6,018

Warnings: Swearing and yaoi (boyxboy)

Summary: Waking up the morning after is never fun, especially when you can't really remember and the other blames it on the alcohol

Disclaimer: I do not own The Boondock Saints. Well, I own the movie, but I don't think that's the same thing.

Notes: Part two of a twoshot, because I love twoshots. Inspired from anything related to alcohol and other fun things. Nerp Nerp Nerp. Special thanks to my beta PurpleRanger who I'm adopting in our fantasy world of love. Don't ask questions.

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Connor:

I can count the number of drinks I had last night on two hands. Three shots and five beers.

Murphy couldn't count the number of drinks he had last night if he took of his shoes and counted his toes and fingers. Hell, I don't even know how many he had. Lost count around fifteen, right around when he began taking shots; I couldn't see them, only the empty glasses and bottles Doc cleared away with a slightly worried expression. Dunno why he kept giving them if he was so goddamn worried. Daft old man.

Murphy was drunk last night. I honestly don't know how he's not dead right now. I suppose it was the large glasses of water Rocco and I convinced him to drink, telling him it was a new colorless alcohol that was flavorless. Also, his tolerance is higher than mine. Something he never lets me forget.

Murphy was drunk.

I was barely tipsy.

Murphy didn't remember much this morning.

I remembered everything.

Everything from being down at Doc's to walking back half carrying him and half-dragging him into the nasty flat to him pulling me into his bed with him. He thought I was drunk. I went with it.

I was not drunk.

I remember every small detail. I remember him, his feverish hands tugging at me as I pulled off my own clothes to go to bed on my mattress, a soft sound slipping from his mouth. I remember internally debating for a while, trying to convince myself that I was innocent, simply comforting my brother in his drunken state. Tried to advocate for my own sake in climbing into bed with him. Convinced myself I wasn't just taking advantage of him while he was drunk, going against everything I had been taught morally and ethically, everything that society demands.

But it's kinda hard to convince yourself that you're not extremely turned on by your brother when he's pulling you to him, whimpering softly and his erection isn't pressing into your thigh insistently. Yeah, that kinda makes it hard. No pun intended. It's hard to convince yourself when, though you haven't had too much to drink, you feel slightly giddy and his hands are so hot, his chest pressed flat to yours and his jeans chafing your skin.

I stopped trying to convince myself around the same time I felt his open mouth panting against the skin of my neck. I stopped trying to tell myself I wasn't in love with my brother and outrageously turned on by him. I stopped holding back.

I knew, as soon as my mouth met his, that this had to be a one time thing. That if he weren't drunk, Murph would have punted me halfway across the room by now. But I had been told I had a slightly slim build, occasionally referred to as feminine by the random drunk, and, judging from how much Murph had, he was probably confused. Or just too damn horny and didn't give a damn. Either way, kissing him was like everything else we've done together, passionate, rough, and a competition.

I won.

He was beautiful, arching underneath me as I plundered his mouth, trailed kisses, bites, and licks down his neck and chest, stroked hands over his smooth skin. He moaned, thrashed, and then bit me, hard, on the shoulder, making me cry out and him smirk like it was Christmas.

I remember every moan, every gasp, every arch of his back as I brought him off. Every sigh and writhe of his body against mine before he jerked so hard we fell off the bed. But he didn't stop, instead turning to me with a predatory glint in his eye as he pinned me down and attached himself to my neck. I remember him practically passing out after his completion, leaving me, hard as hell, lying tangled in his arms and not caring, just smiling as I studied his face. Just drinking him in as he slept like a small child, curled around me.

And I remember falling asleep knowing that he wouldn't remember in the morning and I would be screwed, because I had done exactly what I shouldn't have. I knew I should get up, untangle myself, and return to my bed, but I couldn't. I didn't want to and knew he would just drag me back to him. He's clingy when he's tired, especially if he's drunk as well. I had no idea what to do.

So when he woke up the next morning to his eyes, pained with a hangover I knew he'd have, and realized what position we were in, I did my best to act surprised and confused, roll away from him and act like nothing had happened. Act even though my body was throbbing at every place he had touched. Every place I had touched him.

When he seemed to be struggling with something, trying to say anything, I did it for him, the words spilling from my mouth before I could stop them. I blamed it on the drink and tried not to let that statement rip a hole in my chest because I very well knew the drink had nothing to do with it. What happened have nothing to do with the drink and everything to do with me.

Still, the words were said and I can do nothing but act as natural as I can and pray to God that he accepts that and forgets it. I'm giving you a way out Murphy, a way you can brush this off and go back to watching women and not return home to a brother you feel strange around. I'm giving you a solution.

Which kills me but I'll do it.

I'd do anything for him.

I don't know if he realizes that, but I would do anything for him. I would destroy myself, rip myself from the inside out if it would save him even the slightest bit of pain. I'll say the one thing I know will splinter every bone in my body with the force of its falsity just to keep him safe.

Which leaves me to watch him now, putting on clothes distractedly as he's confused and upset about something. He doesn't have to talk about it. We don't have to go down that road. We can ignore it like I ignored the piles of laundry when it was my turn and he ignored the dishes after dinner every night.

It's hard to watch him, hard because I want to just say I was lying, that it wasn't the alcohol and to stop acting so freakin' weird. But I can't, because I know it'll just make things worse and make me break visibly instead of cracking internally with a cool mask in place. I've never seen him this uncomfortable though, this agitated and off.

Finally, I'm snapped from my silence when he grabs up his peacoat and throws it on, making for the door. "Where th' fuck are ya goin'?" I say from my position near the bathroom, just trying to think of something, anything, to do. But he doesn't answer me as he walks out, ignores me completely as he leaves.

And that's one thing I can't take. He can ignore what happened last night, can ignored the alcohol, can ignore the dishes and forget to wash his socks, but he can't ignore me. Because if he does I'll actually break and die.

I'm in shock, standing in just my jeans and socks, watching the door as if he hadn't just walked through it. I don't want to believe it. I can't believe it.

He can't have left me over just that.

I'm not paying attention to how long I was watching the door (though it was probably a good ten minutes) before I'm throwing on a shirt and running out the door, forgetting my rosary and almost leaving my keys, jumping down the stairs to the outside.

I don't realize it's cold. Just that I can't see Murphy anywhere, that he's gone and I don't know where. A list of places goes through my head.

Doc's? No.

Work? It's our day off.

Rocco's? Too far.

Church? Maybe.

I turn and immediately begin running towards the Church we usually go to, situated not too far from our place but still a significant walk. I'm half the way there when I glance down a random side street and literally almost fall over in stopping.

Murphy's right there, leaning against someone's railing, not looking at anything or anyone as he breathes out smoke. Goddamn if he doesn't look disgruntled. I'm running at him before I can pause, shouting his name. He doesn't look up, either ignoring me or off in his own world. He doesn't look up until I'm right in front of him and his eyes stop me dead in my tracks, halted a few feet from him and panting.

"Where th' fuck did ya go?" I say before I think about what I'm going to talk about. I'm angry, and that anger is only fueled by the pumping adrenalin in my system from all the running I just did.

"Why th' fuck da ya care?" he snaps back, eyes narrowed as he pulls another drag from his cigarette, looking away from me. I hate when he won't look at me while we're arguing, talking, or fighting. I'm so tempted to hit him, any form of physical contact will do.

"Ya fuckin' left fer no reason!" I yell at him, making a few vague gestures. "Ya barely say more 'n five words ta me all mornin' before stormin' out with no word as ta where yer goin.' Fuck! Ya coulda been leavin'."

It's true. That fear of him leaving me was what had me sprinting from the apartment in the first place. The fear that he was so disgusted with me that he just left, that he didn't want anything more to do with me, that no amount of blaming alcohol could ever remedy the damage I had done.

"I WAS leavin'!" he shouts at me as I feel my heart stop and chest go numb as he shoves me. "I don' need ta tell ya everythin' do I?" Yes, you do. "Yer not Ma, Con." You're right. Ma would never want to sleep with you. Besides she doesn't have a penis. He shoves me again. "Christ, it was just fuckin' cigarettes."

Cigarettes. He went out to get goddamn cigarettes and couldn't even say one simple word so I didn't think he was leaving me to die in my own pond of self-abusive hatred. Angry doesn't begin to describe how I feel as I shove him again, snarling. "Fuck you!" I'm shouting, fisting a hand in his jacket and pulling him to my face. I forgot my jacket. "Then ya shoulda told me it was fuckin' cigarettes!" His face is defiant, eyes hard as they look back at me. "Not stormed out like a fuckin' woman. Fuck Murph, ya coulda been leavin' me fer all I knew." My words feel as if they're trailing off, just bordering the actual sadness and pain I can feel welling in my stomach and chest.

"What th' fuck would I be leavin' fer, ya retard?!" he yells, grabbing me by the shirt now and pulling it angrily, forcing his face closer to mine in wild anger. I can think of many answers to that question, all of which end sadly and with both of us very awkward. "The only reason I'd be fuckin' leavin' is because ya force me out."

I shake him at that. Primarily because it makes no fuckin' sense. "Fuck you!" I shake him again to make sure he heard me the first time. Kinda hard not to, I'm yelling in his face. "Then why th' fuck didn't ya come back?"

It's a great question in my mind. Why didn't he turn right around after only a few minutes and come storming back into the apartment, angry and yelling and blatantly the Murphy I know and love? Why did he actually leave? The Murphy I know wouldn't have gone that upset and not stormed right back in spitting fire and gesturing angrily at me for whatever the fuck I did. Then we'd shout for a while, argue, then one of us would hit the other and we'd fight before finally running out of energy and forgetting what we were mad about in the first place. It's like a system for us. A system he completely breached.

"Oh!" he shoves me away, causing me to lose my grip as he looks at me indignantly. "So I can't even have a moment to myself now, huh?" I never said that. "I'm not yer fuckin' property!" I wish you were. He throws his arms out as if to emphasize that he is his own person, individual, unconnected to me. That we're different. I couldn't be more aware of the fact that we're different. I like that we're different; it makes us who we are. "Since when do ya dictate what th' fuck I do?" I've done it every now and then. "If I wanna go on me own for a bit, yer not one ta tell me no."

It's rare that I jerk my head, almost a carnal twitch in agitation but I'm doing it now. Yeah, I'm angry. My teeth are bared and I'm goddamn pissed. "Tha's not th' point!" I try to make a statement but know it's useless.

"Then what is th' fuckin' point, Connor?" he demands, leaning towards me to get right in my face, anger flashing in his eyes. "What th' fuck did ya chase me here fer?" Because I was scared. "Ta yell at me?" Maybe. "Ta make me feel like shit?" No. That's pretty much the last thing I want him to feel. Ever. I've been lying for years, lied this morning, to keep him from feeling like shit. I'm a whole bed of lies to keep him from feeling like shit. "Cuz ya don' have ta follow me down here, I already feel like shit thanks ta ya. So fuck off!"

For a moment, I'm stunned, trying to realize what he's just said. He already feels like shit and it's my fault. Glaring at me as if trying to kill, he turns from me, kicking out at the railing he was leaning against. This doesn't make sense. He's not supposed to feel like shit. He's supposed to feel confused and angry, not like shit. That's my job. I'm used to feeling like shit. Every day I wake up and he's in his own bed begins another cycle of feeling like shit because I'll never be complete without him. And I can deal with feeling like shit, just not him feeling like shit.

Which is why I'm lunging at him and slamming into his back, trying to get him to stop. To stop running from me, to explain what the fuck he's talking about, to help me so I can make this better.

"What the fuck!" Murphy yells at me, turning to glare furiously at me as I fuck with his balance capabilities. "Get off!"

"Tell me what th' fuck yer talkin' about!" It's a perfectly valid demand. To emphasize how serious I am about getting a goddamn answer I kick him awkwardly, hitting him nicely in the calf, jolting his balance and starting one of our many scuffles. He tries to continuously shove me off of him while I latch on as hard as I can and try to drag him to the ground with me.

"Get th' fuck off!" Murphy yells at me, punching me twice against the back, hurting like hell as he tries to wrench my hold on him. He's really struggling right now, having difficulty staying standing. It just gives me more motivation to keep up what I'm doing to haul him to the ground. Goddamn insufferable bastard. I growl at him, digging my hands into his sides and throwing all of my weight backwards, trying to haul him towards me, away from leaving.

Make him just stay put for a moment.

I've succeeded and there's no better feeling than him losing his balance and coming crashing to the ground with me in a tangle of limbs and grunts.

"Connor!" he yells angrily, kicking at me as I roll instantly on top of him, pinning him to the ground to keep him from escaping.

"What's got ya so pissed, huh?" I yell at him. Honestly, I should be the one pissed here, not him. He's not the one who was given a taste of what they can never have and then had it ripped from them brutally by a too confused and immature brother. I'm dragging my way to his face so I can glare at him properly, appropriately scowl down at him and try to bring some sort of sanity to this. Some familiarity. "What's so bad tha' ya can't ev'n tell yer own brother?"

Just saying brother sends a shot of pain through my chest but I ignore it, instead putting all my energy into keeping him pinned there and glaring as angrily as I can.

"Fuck you!" he yells, trying to buck me off as hard as he can, face turned away from me, looking ahead of him and towards escape. Escape I refuse to give him. I won't let him leave.

I can't let him leave.

"That tells me nothin'!" I yell, letting go for a split second to whap him in the side hard, making him grunt and lurch, turning our tangle of limbs so I'm directly on top of him, pinning him to the ground. This position is ideal, mainly because, when attained, Murphy can't do jack shit. He can't hit me, buck me off, kick me, or really do anything at this point, all of him limbs pinned and my dead weight pushing him down. All he can do is move his head.

To the side. To the pavement, as far from me as possible, panting slightly with a parted mouth and closed eyes, neck straining with the effort to hide his face from me at this impossible angle.

He never hides from me. Ever. Usually, when I've got him pinned like this, he'll be glaring burning fire at me, teeth bared and spitting out as many swears and insults as he can, his eyes never leaving mine as he rages at his incapacity.

But he never hides.

Instantly, I'm frozen. I can't move, don't know how to at this point. Something is seriously wrong, and not just as wrong as I initially imagined it to be. Something is wrong to the point that Murphy can't even look at me. Absently, I know that, since I'm still, he can throw me off. But he doesn't.

And that speaks volumes.

It says that, no matter what, I've lost. I've fucked up. Royally.

No matter what I try, no matter how hard I work, I've destroyed what I tried so hard to keep together. All I can hope is that, even if he never looks at me again in the same way, seeing me as his brother, his twin, his best friend, he won't leave me.

Sighing and moving so my weight is taken off of him, I close my eyes briefly.

"Come back t' th' flat," I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking, hardly able to really get out a good sound. He says nothing, just continues to breathe at the pavement, eyes closed and rejecting. "Hey," I say, shoving him slightly as I feel my chest collapsing. "C'mon." Bone after bone being sucked into a black hole forming in the center of my chest where my heart just died. "We're going home."

Home. It's never sounded so depressing.

I can't take this. I can't be this close to him when my insides are being compacted into a gravity-less vortex in my chest. In an instant, I'm off of him, moving back with silent steps to let him be. I can feel my throat beginning to constrict, preparing for tears which haven't been seen since I was a child.

Please, just open your eyes.

Please look at me, even if it's the last time.

Please.

But he doesn't, instead remaining lying on the pavement and breathing to the ground, eyes closed and hiding. "Go yerself," he said softly, his voice devoid of anger and suddenly, all of the pain combusting in my chest explodes.

I'm hauling him to his feet before I know it, grip harsh in the lapels of his coat and forcing him to face me, forcing him to look at me. It's a wild mixture of anger and pain in my core, bubbling and mixing like a modern artists canvas, full of emotion but making no sense.

He won't look at me, instead keeping his face to the side, eyes open but dead, staring at nothing.

I'm lost. I've lost him. And I can never get him back.

It's all because of me as well.

Fuck.

"Is this because o' last night?" Of course it is. What sort of moron can't see that? But I ask it anyway. There's really no need for him to answer, because I already know. It's just the dying optimist in me that hopes this disconnect has nothing to do with my royal fuck up.

He blinks, giving only the smallest reaction, seemingly meaningless but screaming with significance. Screaming the same way his calm soft breathing is controlled, body limp in my firm grip.

Fuck.

Sighing, I let my hands and grip relax in his coat, releasing him to stand on his own. To run from me if he needs to. I know the next words out of my mouth are going to kill me before they release but I say them anyway. "Look, Murph, I'm sorry, alright?"

There is no degree which I can express how sorry I am.

"I just don' feel th' way you do-"

I wish I did. I wish you felt the way about me the way I feel about you.

I hate this love.

"-I didn't mean fer this ta happen-"

You were drunk. You didn't know what you were doing and I was stupid. I shouldn't have let this happen.

It's my fault.

"-But I can't change th' way I feel-"

Though I wish I could. God, I wish I could.

"-Or th' way ya feel I guess."

Please kill me.

"Can't we just forget about it?"

A futile probe. It wasn't me speaking right now. It was some shell speaking hollowly and with the guise of Connor. Right now, I'm screaming and writhing and trying to keep from being consumed in this whole mess of wrong that I've spun for myself.

Suddenly, his eyes snap open as his head jerks to me, finally looking at me and meeting my eyes as his body goes rigid. "No, Connor, I can't just forget it," he snaps furiously and with more venom than he ever needed to kill me. I can feel my false expression falling, crumbling. "I can't forget it no matter how hard I try." I can't put the pieces back together. "Fuck!" he shouts and shoves me hard.

I have no balance, stumbling backwards and losing all the composure I had tried to fake. The mix of anger and pain fluxes again and I snap, glaring slightly as I face him. "Look, it's not like yer th' only one hurt an' confused here!" I shout, feeling my face heating slightly. He has no idea what I'm hiding. "Stop actin' like yer th' only one that's been fucked over!" Because, really, he has no idea.

"Oh!" he snaps, throwing out an arm angrily. "An' yer gonna tell me ya feel like yer dyin' inside, huh?"

I'm pissed. What does he know about internal death? He has no idea what this feels like. He has no idea how much pain I'm in. Pain I'm in every goddamn day that I hide and put on a face for him. Pain he can't even imagine.

"So what if I am!" I yell, glaring. I'm talking, well, yelling, without thinking. It's just forcing its way through my mouth, about to build up to the final blow. The final drum roll at the gallows before the executioner pulls a lever plummeting me to my death. "S'not like ya care. Fuck!"

He's just about as angry as I am, which is nice. When we're both fuckin' furious, yelling is a lot easier. "Well, why don't ya just go an' blame that on th' alcohol too." Jesus Fuckin' Christ. "Worked fine b'fore fer ya," he sneers at me.

"GODDAMN-" the words are out before I can stop them. "Fuck you! It wasn't the alcohol!"

I'm fucked.

I'm so horribly fucked.

I'm so horribly, terribly, painfully and completely fucked right now.

Murphy's still suddenly, eyes widened slightly as he looks at me, breath caught for a split second before picking up again. Then he's breathing again, almost hyperventilating as his eyes flash at me, confusion, disbelief, and anger directed at me. "What?"

I've already fucked myself. Not much more I can lose at this point. "It wasn't th' alcohol, Murph," I repeat, slightly softer and can feel the defeat slipping through my skin, making my face fall slightly as my glare loses its intensity.

It's rare that I throw my brother, the case typically being the opposite. Murphy's the one that surprises me; I'm not the one that has him without words ever. It's a weird shift. He jerks slightly, as if undecided whether he wants to hit me or move. "What d'ya mean it wasn't th' alcohol?" Murphy says, his tone uncertain. "Ya were drunk."

I want to sigh, to shake, to sit down, to bury my face in my hands. Instead, I simply shake my head just slightly and breathe. "No," I say softly. "You were drunk." I can feel him about to argue and wish he would just stop. I don't want to talk about this anymore. God fuck hell.

"Th' fuck is this?" Murphy snaps, at a loss even as he tries to fight. "This isn't some sorta accusin' game, Con," he spits, taking a few angry steps towards me. "We were both fuckin' drunk." He pushes a hand against my chest in emphasis, face once more angry.

I can barely call up the energy to put a bite in my voice but it comes out somehow. "M'not arguing with ya," I snap, slapping his hand away. "I was th' one draggin' yer wasted arse home last night, forcin' water down yer throat so don' go tellin' me which one o' us was drunk because I, for fuck's sake, know it wasn't me."

At every word Murphy's eyes go slightly wider, mouth parting slightly as he draws back slightly. Before my mouth has closed however, he's snarling, lunging at me and wrapping his fists in the thin collar of my shirt, shoving me back. "What th' Fuck, Connor?" he practically screams, hurling me backwards and against the wall of a crumbling building, the hard wall slamming the air partially from my lungs. Through the pain in my back and gritted teeth, eyes half closed at the pain and debris falling from the aged building, I can see Murphy's face, just inches from mine.

He's not snarling, glaring, frowning, or angry at all. Instead, the creased brows are drawn down in confusion and almost pain, his eyes lost and desperate. His mouth is parted slightly, breathing heavily as I realize the hands in my shirt aren't there to bruise but to try to hold onto something, figure out what the fuck is going on. I've never seen him this desperately confused and vulnerable. Not since the first night in Boston, when he realized we were as far from home as we'd ever been, away from Ma, from all we ever knew.

"What the fuck?" Murphy breathes out, eyes swimming unrecognizably. I'm breaking all over again.

Please. Please, don't look like this.

I'm begging, please don't hurt brother of mine.

Before I can stop myself, my arms are wrapped around him and I'm pulling him to me, one hand against the back of his neck and the other in his hair, my eyes closing, pressing water from them as I press my lips to his.

A kiss to make it better.

Fuck.

As swiftly as I had done it, I let go, eyes snapping open in realization of what I've just done, and I'm breaking from him and feeling my blood go cold in fear, my hands still frozen in place. Murphy looks back, surprise on his face as his eyes meet mine. His mouth closes and he swallows.

"It wasn't th' alcohol," Murphy says softly, not questioning but stating, eyes cautious as his fingers flex in my shirt. Slowly, I shake my head, waiting breathlessly for the shove and rejection. Murphy swallows again, eyes slowly slipping shut as he inhales deeply. "Connor."

Licking extremely dry lips, I try to find my voice. "Yeah, Murph," I say, entire body thrumming in apprehension.

Murphy exhales through his nose, fingers releasing my shirt as his eyes open, revealing blue eyes. Eyes no longer apprehensive, confused, hurt, anxious. They're dancing.

"If ya fuckin' lie ta me again, m' gonna set yer bed on fire," Murphy says, a slight smile quirking his mouth. My eyes go wide for a second, the thought process of 'what the fuck' being abruptly stopped as his hands sudden dig into my hair and jerk me towards him, slamming his mouth against mine brutally and making me lose everything.

I'm brought back only when he draws back, I don't know how much later, with my lungs burning from lack of oxygen and eyes heavy, cracking open to look at him. My legs are weak, only just keeping me up because of the wall against my back and my brother pressed against me. Panting harshly and flushed, I can do nothing but look at the beauty that is my brother. Things don't make sense, don't fit together, but, at this point, I don't care.

Moaning softly, I turn my head slightly, hands knitting in his dark muss of hair, a quiet "Murph,' slipping from my lips just as they press against his once again, the soft velvet of his mouth burning into me and leaving smooth bliss to course through my system, radiating from every pore.

God, this is heaven.

Breaking, though keeping his forehead against mine, Murphy pants against me, eyes closed. "You remember then," he asks softly, words ghosting over hyper sensitive flesh as his fingers gently massage.

It takes me a moment to realize he's speaking, and what language it's in before I even figure out what he's saying. Remember. Remember what? Last night. What about it?

Drunken brother drags other brother to him and-

Right, last night, when Murphy was drunk and definitely not treated as a brother by me.

Drunk, unlike now.

Suddenly, my eyes are open, looking at him, in shock, question, and worry. He knows what's going through my head before even I can put it together. "A long time," he whispers, a hand trailing down my neck gently. "A fuckin' long time. Dunno when it started but I've been achin' fer too long." With a slight intake of breath, he ghosts his lips over mine. "Fuck, Con, I love you."

Well, for one who thinks he knows his brother as well as I do I sure feel like a stupid motherfucker.

It's hard not to think I'm dreaming, that this isn't real, that Murphy isn't actually here, wound up tight against me and saying what he is, lips still tingling from kisses moments before. But the pain forming in my back, the hard press of the building against my shoulders and my pulse pounding in my ears all tell me it's real. And that's more than I ever could have dreamed for.

Breath hitching at the words 'I love you,' I can feel my chest blossoming, getting heavy and expanding in happiness. I laugh breathlessly, kissing him feverishly, fingers threading through hair in almost desperation. "Fuck, I love you," I rasp out, almost shaking. "I love you, Murph, so fuckin' much. God." I can barely speak, the words leaping out between kisses to his mouth and face, almost frantic.

Then his hands leave me, going up to hold gently onto my wrists, making me pause, open my eyes and look at him. He's softly grinning, stepping back and drawing from me, my hands slipping from him to his hands, caught and held for a moment before being dropped.

No.

He smiles, seeing my expression. "M'not leavin,' he says simply, watching me as I don't move, staying against the wall. Grinning widely, he steps forward, running a hand swiftly through my hair, ruffling it before taking me firmly by the shoulder and wrenching me from the wall, making me stumble as he drags me to walk with him.

I'm scowling, system still humming and face still slightly flushed from moments ago as I look at him, grinning beside me and walking nonchalant. "The fuck, Murph?" I say, a slight edge to my voice.

He turns to me, grinning. "I don't remember," he says, moving closer to me, insignificant to the naked eye but making my skin tingle. I blink at his words, scowling slightly. "So," he continues, shrugging up his shoulders and getting the attitude about him which I associate with impending mischief. "I want ya ta tell me what th' fuck happened last night," he finishes, eyes flashing to me and glinting.

I almost stop walking, shock joining the scowl on my face as my feet momentarily stop moving. Still grinning, Murph swings an arm over my shoulders, drawing me close to him, which, really, is appreciated. I'm reminded yet again I forgot my coat, having run after him in just a light shirt. Now, closer to me, Murph leans over as we emerge onto a main street, a few people going about their daily business. Breath ghosting over my ear, he husks "N' I'm plannin' on rememberin' what happens this time."

Feeling a shot of heat rush up my body at his words, I turn to look at him. He's grinning, a new message behind that mischievous glint in his eyes. I'm suddenly grinning back at him.

"Aye," I say, allowing a slight growl to slip into my voice. "Ya want me ta begin with me draggin' yer arse home or after that?"

Murphy smirks, the hand on my shoulder giving a slight squeeze as he glances around briefly, taking in the morning crowd of people innocently going about their tasks. He raises his eyebrows and gives me a pointed look. "As much fun as ya draggin' me arse home sounds, m' sure we might be better citizens ta spare some folk a few burnin' retinas," he says, drawing up slightly. "Though puttin' public indecency on our shinin' record is temptin'."

I smirk at him, loving the way he always twists the interpretation of things. "Aye, that is a temptin' idea," I agree, nodding and enjoying the soft sensation beginning to boil in the pit of my stomach. "A temptin' idea indeed."

-end-

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A/N: Okay, so I know it didn't end with happy beautiful slashy sex but, well, for some reason it just didn't work that way. Either way, I hope you enjoyed pretty much my first published BDS story (wow, that's a little scary) and will tell me all about what you liked/didn't like. Again, special thanks to PurpleRanger for being my beta for this. I pretty much flailed about uselessly before so, yeah, she's amazing. As for why I'm adopting her, don't sweat it. It all has to do with art projects, ten year olds, and people named Norman. Love you all and thank you for reading. *pokes and whispers* (I love reviews? plz?)


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